Old window

That this life is a bad dream.

That the winter and the time are about to finish, and I am becoming more nothing every second.

That is what I could say, and I could add ‘Welcome to my nightmare’, and this one is lasting too much, and I can’t stand it anymore.

I have changed my room, and I don’t live in the bed anymore. Now I inhabit in the big window, and every hour I touch it, feeling the cold glass. The winter still lives outside, but I have put off the batteries of the white clock; I don’t want to see the minutes running. I have put off all the batteries of my clocks, my heart is now my only one, and it’s ticking so fast and so cruelly. I need to stop it, I don’t want to feel the beating. I’m living in the window because I like to see the birds flying, and I like to think that they feel warm in the air, and I like to imagine their blood, also flying, their warm blood, held so many meters above the ground, and I like to imagine that I am also flying warmly, and that the grey clouds can’t reach me as they normally do, even when I am inside the walls of what I am suppose to called home. Clouds around my coffee, clouds around my hands, clouds around my eyes. Cold clouds that dizzy me. I’m living in the windowsill, and when the night arrives I turn on one of my small lights, and then I can’t see the birds anymore because it’s dark outside, but I can see myself in the window, although I also feel dark. The crystal returns me my reflection, but I am becoming more nothing every time, and I only get to see a shadow of what I used to be, of what I was supposed to be. And I am becoming more nothing every second. Seconds. The seconds that walk in my heart with every beat, the beat of the birds that try to get out of my heart, the cut wings of the birds that died walking in my heart, each second, each beat.

One day I will fly. And no window will stop me.

That this life is a bad short dream, but I would love to live it forever, and make the nightmare eternal, even though it has no sense, even though the winter is about to finish, even though I know the next is not a spring but a hardest winter.

That the time is ticking on. And I am more nothing than ever.